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by octopus_fool



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dwarf Culture & Customs, Gen, Khazâd November, Petty-dwarves, References to Genocide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 10:04:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12702639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_fool/pseuds/octopus_fool
Summary: He knew there were other options, maybe even a way out.





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**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 13 of [Khazâd November](https://a-grump-of-dwarves.tumblr.com/post/166304116735/khaz%C3%A2d-november-2017), the additional prompt was "mountain".  
> 

He had thought about it. Of course he had. They were the last and only a fool thought that anybody could survive on their own. His sons would be able to find wives and they would not be the last of the line.

Except that they would still be the last, the last of their culture, the last of their kind, of their people. 

And he would not _grovel_. He knew the history, all of it. How his forefathers had asked for trade, for troops and finally for food. 

“A dwarf who does not live in a mountain is not truly a dwarf,” they had said, denying them all of it. 

They said this after they had driven his forefathers out of the mountains, made them unwelcome there for as small a sin as using the names they had been given in front of Mahal. As if using a _name_ was something shameful, something worth denying someone a place in society for. 

So he had thought about asking for help, thought about groveling, renouncing the ways of his forefathers. Perhaps then, they would be so _generous_ as to take him and his sons in. And he did live in a mountain now, a mountain of his own, so that excuse would no longer count. 

But it was not worth it. He would not grovel, would not beg for forgiveness for something that did not need to be forgiven, would not give up his culture. He had told his sons that they had his blessings to leave for the mountain settlements, should they wish to do so, but they too refused. 

He would live with them in his own mountain until the end of his days, forging his own luck, no matter how hard it would be to come by. He would deal with elves and men and orcs on his own, in his mountain with hair as red as the sunset. He would be the last of his people, and with pride.

His name was Mîm, and he would not let anybody change that.


End file.
